If TV's Mrs Brown's Boys is a phenomenon there is no word to describe the record-breaking popularity of the live version. Last night Brendan O'Carroll's smutty Dublin matriarch barely had to curl a lip or lift an eyebrow and the entire O2 went into giggle meltdown. It helps that giant screens magnified the mugging. In effect, 16,000 people were watching television together.

For The Love of Mrs Brown banks various strands in the excitable first half and collects the pay-offs in the patchier second. Mrs Brown’s date, daughter Cathy’s boob job, son Rory’s LSD stash, son Dermot’s superhero sideline — very Del Boy, that final one.

It is not Chekhov by a long chalk but O’Carroll is a masterful physical comedian, he has formidable timing and takes great pleasure in wrongfooting his cast, some of whom are genuine family, with playful ad libs.

There is plenty of unreconstructed smut, some icky sentimentality and overripe over-familiar gags. But there are also inventive moments when the fourth wall is demolished. “Mammy, I’m home,” shouts Rory, who makes Graham Norton seem butch, as he enters. “I know. I can hear everyone clapping,” replies Mrs Brown. I’m not sure if Brendan O’Carroll knows what “postmodern” means but he certainly knows how to deliver laughs big enough to fill the largest lounge in London.